By now it is evening time and all the girls and women are in their finest frippery and Tom, I am one of them, waitin’ down in the parlor, flirting with all the gentlemen callers. Miss Rosie, my tall quadroon, crooks her little finger at me and that is my signal to meet my Major in the parlor. He is the attashay to General Butler hisself! Taking the Major’s arm like I was teached, I wait while he counts out the cash into Madame Violet’s hands. Only then do I let him escort me up the stairs.
“What’s your name, lovely lady?” he asks of me.
“Miss Sarah Elizabeth Amy Potterfield Grangerford, suh,” I reply. “Of the Jackson, Mississippi Potterfields and Grangerfords of course.”
“Do I detect a hint of Southern aristocracy, Miss Grangerford?”
And here, I lifts my chin into the air and squints my eyes at him like he was a bug, just like Madame Violet teached me and I say, “Major, Suh, there is no Southern belle as aristocratic as I and I will thank you to remember your place as the crude barbarian invader that you are.” The fine Massychoosetts Major writ them words, not me, and now he turns all red and commences to sweat like a plow-horse. Did I mention the Major is easy on the eye? Well, he is. We reached the top of the stairs and we were standing in front of our room for the night, and the Major gives me a wink of his eye that makes me blush like a girl.
Inside the room, I remember the words I am ’spected to say, and I start saying them. I call him all sorts of worm and coward.
“You ain’t even fit to lick my toes.”
“Oh, Mistress Grangerford, ma’am,” says he, “I am, I am fit to lick your toes.”
“Oh, no, you ain’t, you catawumptious weasel,” says I just the way I been schooled.
“Oh, yes I am. Allow me to prove it to you.”
“Oh, no, you ain’t, you gritless varmint and if you push me one step further, I’m gonna whoop you with this here cow-hide like the monkey you are.”
Now I should tell you that women in N’awlins are not in any way permitted to call Union soldiers monkeys, nor are they to spit on ’em in the streets, much as they may want to, for otherwise they are to be taken as common whores and subject to their whims and all this by the order of the boss general of my very own Major, General Butler hisself!
But here I am, calling this Yankee officer a monkey and then I hawk a fine gob of spit right down into his face. Well, you woulda thought I’d fed the man a spoonful of sweet potato pie the way he slobbered it up. This was gettin’ to be fun. Then I whoop him. I whoop him really good, and once I done that, I tell him:
“Now lick up my toes you chatterin’ monkey. Clean up these here Southern belle toes of mine, you Yankee scum.” I made that one up myself, and he seemed to like it. “Go on, use that ill-bred tongue of yours.”
He goes down on his knees, and I’m afraid his smeller is gonna get more than he bargained for. But no sooner do I finish this thought when I feel that bristly moustache and his warm tongue of his working their way over my toesies. He pauses right there and looks up at me, and I’m afraid he’s got himself some misgivings.
“Miss Sarah Grangerford,” he gasps, “Your feet are the most delicate flowers of the South,” and he falls to further lickings and suckings for the better part of half an hour. I have learned myself a good lesson and that would be that beauty is in the eye of the one payin’ for yer services.
Then, just like the madam said he would, he starts workin on my ankles with that prickly, tickly moustache of his. I am biting my lip as I dasn’t laugh; but then his moustache is ticklin’ the calf of my leg; and next the back of my knees. Seemed like I’d die if I couldn’t laugh, and all the time I’m tryin’ not to laugh, he’s shoutin’ things like, “Long Live King Cotton,” and “Ulysses S. Grant is the Devil incarnate!” and “I believe in States’ rights!” which is the signal for me to pull his head up between my legs and say:
“Use that mouth of yours to show me how sorry you are for despoiling our gentile South with your oafish manners,” which I say, but as I’m pullin’ his head up, that troublesome moustache of his tickles me where I can’t stand it one moment longer and I bust out laughing. And he’s lookin’ up at me, all astonished and then he busts out laughing hisself! But he takes me into his mouth anyways and I didn’t know you could do that so good and be laughing at the same time, but that’s what he’s doin’. He’s doin’ it so good that pretty soon I stop laughing and commence in gasping. And then I’m not gasping but I’m jest cryin’ out: “Oh, oh, oh! Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhh!” And without thinking and without being teached by Madame Violet, I ask him does he want me up between his legs with my mouth on him.
“Girl,” he says to me real soft like, “I can think of nothing I would cherish more.” No one’s ever talked to me like that before. He ackshully used the word “cherish” and it wasn’t ’til then I noticed what a nice smile the Major has. We spend the better part of the night wrapped up in each other’s arms and legs and tongues and other parts.
The way he’s treating me I think to myself maybe just tonight I am a little bit of a woman.
He has to get back to his barracks before the bugles blow revelly, so he gets outta bed just before dawn. I pretend to keep on sleeping, so’s I can enjoy watchin’ what he’s like when he’s not acting out the words he writ for us to use the night before. He gently tucks something in between my bosoms, which by now have come partly unstuck one from t’other, and then he walks out the door, pulling it closed real quiet behind him. I just watch the door through half-closed eyes fer maybe ten minutes. Then I remember to reach in between my bosoms to see what he left me. He had tipped me another dixie. Bon Mambo was gonna get her tribute after all.
Well, my Massychoosetts Major is uncommon fond of me, and I of him, so I been staying here at Madame Violet’s since that night. A true adventuress, that’s me. The war is over and he has told me he is returning to Massychoosetts where he has a wife and four chil’ren, the oldest is my age near exactly. But the city has been filling up with carpetbaggers and scalawags for some months now, and with the war over, it is sure to fill up more. So, there’s gonna be a whole new crop of men who are gonna want to buy themselves some evenings with girls like me. I got nowhere in particular to go, and besides I sort of like it here.
Bon Mambo is ringin’ the dinner bell, and I am uncommon fond of her cooking so I’m gonna close up this letter now. Write me a letter when you get a chance to, will you? It would be so very good to hear how you’re getting along. Or better yet, come to N’awlins and allow me to show off our lovely city to you. That would be ever so much better. Jest make your way to the Frenchy Quarter and remember if you please to not ask for Huckleberry Finn. But you ask any kind stranger where is Sassy Sarah, and they will lead you right to my door.
Fondly,
(your) Sassy
THAT’S WHAT LITTLE GIRLS ARE MADE OF
Toni Amato
She likes it best when I shave her first. Not just because she is a good girl, and a clean girl, but because she wants as much of her Daddy’s attention as she can get. She’s a good girl and I love her dearly, so it’s easy enough to give her what she wants. Once she’s earned it.
She likes it best when I shave her, first, and sometimes she even asks for it nicely. Not just because she is a clean girl, and a good girl, but because she can’t get enough of asking me to do that, to shave her. And I make her say the whole damn thing, with a pretty please on top.
“Daddy, will you pretty please shave my pussy after I get it all ready for you?”
She asks all sweet and big eyed and one hand on the crotch of my pants, where I keep her best surprise of all. And when she is good like that, and sweet like that, I take out my shaving kit and set up everything carefully and slowly so that she can see it. I sing to her while I set things up, because she is such a sweet and special girl.
“You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold,” I sing to her as I lay out the heavy pewter shaving mug she gave me for Father’s Day and the brush I bought fo
r myself. “You’re Daddy’s little girl, to have and hold.” She likes it best of all when I sing as I set up all the bright, shiny things I’ll use to shave her, and I like to watch the way her eyes follow the cool smooth ivory handle of my vintage straight razor. They don’t make them like that anymore, and she knows it. And I know she’d like to say it bothers her, just a little, that the handle is real and actual ivory, just like she’d like to say it bothers her, just a little, that the strop I’ll use to sharpen the razor is made of leather, extra long and extra heavy, just like her grandpa would have used. The bristles on the brush are from a badger, and that bothers her a little, too. She likes the way they prickle her, though, just beneath the warm, silky smoothness of her favorite lather. The soap I’ll use tonight is not my usual bay rum and bergamot, but ginger and orange scented, special made, because she loves Shirley Temples and I like it when she tastes sweet. The handle of the shaving brush is smooth, rounded wood. She likes the way it warms up in my hand, and I like the way she looks like a little velveteen rabbit, with it sticking out of her ass. She loves bunnies, my sweet little girl, just the way she loves all the animals, and that’s why the bristles and the strop and the handle of the razor make her a little sad.
I could be a mean Daddy and tease her about how much she loves the bristles and the strop and the razor. But I don’t. Because I love them too, because they show their age and because they are real things that don’t break easily, just like the velveteen rabbit. Just like her. Bonafide. Made of skin and bone and bristle. I tell her that. I tell her that as I fill a white porcelain basin with steaming water and carry it over to where she has been sitting, very good and very still, on the edge of the bed, waiting for her Daddy.
I set the basin on a small table, beside a clean, white washcloth and towel, a pump bottle of lube, one latex glove and a gold coin condom. Everything is clean and bright and arranged just so, the way I know she likes it to be. And I wonder if she remembers the cool, professional precision of other bright and shiny things. I am careful and deliberate with her, my precious girl. I place one hand just below the hem of her skirt. “Now lift your skirt up over your knees for Daddy,” I tell her, and as she obeys, I lower her panties to her ankles. When her panties are down, I tell her to lean back on the bed and to spread her knees wide apart for me. She used to be too shy to let me lower her panties with the lights on, too shy to let me shave between her pretty, dimpled knees. She is still shy, now, and I can see her struggle, but she’s a good girl and she wants to make me happy. She spreads her knees and I pull up a stool, next to the table with the strop and the brush and the razor and basin. She spreads her knees and only hesitates for a moment when I tell her to spread her lips so that I can see what she has made and kept all ready for me.
She does that for me, getting ready. Less often, now that she has healed up, and now that she can take all of her Daddy. But still once or twice a week. I bought her a special set of dilators in her very favorite colors so she could always feel pretty. Four soft pastels, all in their own special pouch.
“But Daddy,” she asks, even as her hands are doing as she has been told, “won’t that be naughty?” She knows how to be good, when she wants to be, and she knows how to be naughty, when I need her to be, and that, I tell her, is how I know that she is my best little girl, made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
“Such a pretty girl,” I whisper to her as I lean forward just close enough to blow a kiss and her thighs begin to tremble. “Such a sweet and special girl, all ready for Daddy to make her clean and smooth. Are you ready for Daddy to make you all clean and smooth?”
“Yes, Daddy. Please.”
I gently lift her hands and place them at her sides. The water in the basin is still steaming and the brush makes a soft swishing sound as I work up lather for her. I work quickly so the lather will be thick and warm. I would never use foam from a can on my girl. When the brush touches her skin she jumps just a little and so I slap her thigh and tell her to lie still. She whimpers quietly, but does her best.
“Such a good girl,” I tell her, and carefully brush lather across every inch of her pussy. With a swirling motion, I make soft peaks in the lather before I push the bristles gently between her lips and over her clit. She jumps again and I have to tell her, once more, to lie still. Better to practice now, I tell her, when the only thing next to her pretty little pussy is a soft brush. Better to get all her jumpiness out before the sharp shiny thing gets there. She sighs and I can see all the tension go out of her, starting at her shoulders and moving across her rounded belly and into her thighs. Her legs part just the barest bit wider and now I know that she is really and completely all mine.
The first long, slow stroke of the razor leaves a swath of pink skin. Her hair here is like corn silk and eiderdown, made soft where mine has become coarse and thick. We are marvels of change, my sweet girl and I, miracles of longing and intent. The second and the third passes of the blade leave only a narrow strip of lather down her center. I stop, then, to run my tongue along the edges of her mound. She is slippery and wet and she tastes like heaven. Her hips rise just the tiniest bit and I decide to be lenient. I blow more cool kisses on her hot skin before I place the edge of the razor to her slit.
This is the part that scares her the most, now, when all the cool steel sharpness is once again so close to all that is new and tender and freshly exposed. This is when she goes as still and quiet as a frightened rabbit, when she struggles the most to stay open and trusting for me, and this is when I love her the most, so sweet and willing and a little afraid. But she knows that I am a nice Daddy and that I know how much time she has spent being hurt and afraid. We are miracles of courage, my sweet girl and I, marvels of survival and strength. She knows that she is my special girl and that all I want to do is make her feel well loved.
The last of the lather is gone, finally, and I gently wash her clean with a cotton cloth.
“Now wasn’t Daddy nice to you,” I ask her, as I place the wide palm of my hand flat against her and hold it there so she can feel the heat. I press against her, first easy and light, then firmer and harder so that almost all my weight is balanced there. She’s not a big girl, and my weight pushes her deeper into the bed.
“Yes, Daddy,” she says. “Thank you, Daddy.” The cool smooth of her shaved pussy against my palm is slick and delicious and I cannot wait any longer.
“Sit up, now,” I tell her. “Sit up and do something nice for Daddy.”
She knows, my good girl, exactly what I mean. She knows I need for her to be a little naughty. For her to unbutton my trousers and reach in for my cock. What she doesn’t know is that tonight I have a new one, just for her. A new one in the same color as what she has used to make and keep herself ready.
“Oh, Daddy!” she says before she can stop herself, “what a pretty cock you have!” And then she flushes. She knows better than to call her Daddy, or any part of him, pretty. She knows how to say handsome, and good looking, and even manly, but this time she just couldn’t help it. I knew she wouldn’t be able to. And I am not a mean Daddy, but sometimes I do like to punish her. She knows this, too, and she knows she has been set up and she tries very hard not to pout and not to get herself into more trouble. I grab her ankles and use them to flip her onto her back, then spin her like a top, her head now hanging just off the edge of the bed.
“If you can’t talk nicely, maybe you shouldn’t talk at all,” I tell her and step forward, the crown of my cock bobbing just above her lips. They part more easily than her thighs had. She’s good at giving head, my girl, and she is eager to make me happy with her again. As she swirls her tongue along the ridge of my cock, I put on the glove and a dab of lube. I slide one and then two fingers slowly into her so that I can feel the deep groan in her throat.
“That’s my good girl, sucking on my cock. Show me how good you can be, sweet girl, and maybe I’ll fuck that tight little pussy of yours.” I pump my fingers knuckle deep and turn my wrist in half circ
les so that she can feel me everywhere, inside, as she tightens her throat muscles around my cock. With her tongue, she presses me hard up against her palate while I push in and out of her. Slurping and sucking noises fill the air, and I am close to coming when I pull my cock out from between her swollen lips. She looks up into my eyes, tears brimming just at the edges of her own. My fingers are lightly strumming her clit, my thumb just resting on the edge of her need.
I push her back onto the bed and lift her knees, resting her ankles on my shoulders. My cock hangs long and heavy and glistening between us and she knows, now, that the time has come to ask nicely again. It’s time to be the best little girl she knows how to be. I wait, with my hands against the back of her thighs and the head of my cock against her opening.
“Daddy, will you fuck my pussy?” she asks me, eyes locked to mine. Sugar and spice, and everything nice, that’s what my little girl is made of. She reaches for the foil-wrapped condom and smiles sweetly, willingly and just a little bit naughtily as she rolls the latex over the head of my cock. “Pretty please?”
Take Me There Page 9
